


hanakotoba

by LuluTen



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Flowers, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Takatoo Tasuku/Tsukioka Tsumugi, fuyupoly-- if you really squint, hisohoma if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuluTen/pseuds/LuluTen
Summary: He hoped that, wherever he was, he could somehow reach him.Maybe someday he would wake up and this would feel natural. Homare softly ran his hand through Hisoka’s hair as they talked, their empty cups left on the floor to be thrown away afterwards. It was almost time to leave.--Sometimes, it's hard to move on.
Relationships: Takatoo Tasuku/Tsukioka Tsumugi
Kudos: 24





	hanakotoba

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east- and the morning light that crashes through his window slices into his eyes despite his best attempts to screw them tightly shut. It must be morning again. Waking up was hell. He slept whenever he could and intermittently woke up, shaken from some imperceptible thing that still lingered, unsure if it was night or day or months or years in the future or past. He felt suspended from a phantom height, or perhaps it was that a phantom abyss was expanding under him, that left him teetering as he trudged out of bed. He understands now what it means to feel afraid of the changing clock. It seemed nowadays that everything moved too much for his liking.

He crawled towards the kitchen, dragging his feet in a shuffle of a walk over the cold floor. The cold air swirled around his legs. It was always too cold in the winter. His eyes travelled around, quietly searching for something, and abruptly stopped when they hit the hanging calendars, as if finding some freshly unfamiliar marking among rows and rows of empty days. Neatly penned in next to tomorrow’s date was a little reminder, smudged slightly by a messy hand. The date was circled twice, imprecisely, in a looping red scrawl that stood out against the stark blankness of the rest of the month. The red scribble was like a hurried crimson vine that wrapped around the date, strangling it. Perhaps that was a good way to put it. He was feeling strangled too. The message itself was short and simple. Direct. No frills. “meet up- 5pm,” it read, with a slight downward slant to the characters. It was written in his style, to the point and easy to understand. He remembers writing this in with a pen and could see the messy scratches and tears along the edges of the paper from when the ink stopped flowing. The pen, ink somewhere between flowing and stopped, rested on the counter. He couldn’t throw it away yet. He brushed his fingers over the torn edges and turned away quickly before he could see its twin; the other was shut like an eye that would no longer open. 

-

He opened his closet, pushing aside the deflated footballs and shoes and props and questionnaires and ads and memorabilia and books and ties and crumpled drawings of dogs penned by a childish hand. He retrieved his shoes, the nice black ones that were fit for more formal company, and set them aside. There were still a little scuffed at the edges from nervous brushes against each other and the digging of heels into the dusty ground. There was a particular patch of mud brushed along the inside edge of the right shoe, a phantom mark left from feeling a sudden emptiness. His feet wandered, trained after years of habitually passing around a ball from teammate to teammate, only to find nothing to do but to grind deeper into the dirt. He would need to clean them soon. Usually it wouldn’t matter but he needed to be ready, visibly prepared from crown to sole. It had been so long since he last needed them, so long since he ungracefully tossed them away into the closet and tightly shut the door.

-

It was raining yet again. Though his curtains were fraying, their shape distended after years of errant tugs from wandering hands, they still blocked out the swirling mist outside. They were a gift from Yuki because his old ones were "so ugly that he’d rather be blinded by the sunlight" than look at them. They were carefully handmade and irreplaceable. A thin sliver of light slipped through the window, lighting up a small patch on the table with a soft cushion of light. He opened his cabinet and let the smell of tea flutter into his nostrils. It was quiet. The room was filled with the gentle swelling pitter patter of water gliding down the window and falling onto the cracked concrete below. He reached in and withdrew his jar of tea, cheap convenience store tea with puffed rice stored in one of those old glass jam jars with a fading label of a smiling berry, and shook out just enough to cover the bottom of his mug. It was slightly grassy, passably fresh, and blessedly not floral. 

The kettle was running, breathing whispers of steam into his little kitchen, but it was still too quiet. Everything was entirely too still. His left hand began to prepare a second mug as he fiddled with the kettle, eyeing the water as it bubbled away and the rain dripped down outside. Perhaps he would open the window and let the cool wind stream in and breathe whispering promises into his hair. He paused as his arm brushed against a familiar bottle of sake. It was a gift from Azuma, untouched but well preserved, and saved for a special occasion which may or may not ever truly arrive. He kept it there next to the wine, a gift from Tenma this time. It had been a graduation present of sorts, in as much as it could be considered a graduation or farewell party, and rested there along with an unopened bag of artisanal marshmallows. They stood out against the cobbled mess of his home. 

His hand reached out and gently moved aside the curtains to reveal the dewy scene outside. There was a mixture of stragglers weaving around pedestrians with umbrellas. The rain pearled up into fat droplets on the trees outside, with leaves bowing as they released their own drops down onto the passersby below. Wilting flowers could finally soak up some precious moisture. Everyone seemed trapped in a beautifully spontaneous dance as they glided down the streets. The kettle was singing at this point, caught in a silent scream of its own. He poured some water into his mug, just enough to fill it without letting it slosh onto the floor as he swirled it, and waited, letting the strengthening smell drift up and soothe him in some small way. Grassy. Fresh. Comforting. His eyes followed the gentle bobble of rice up and down in his pale green mug until they drifted once again to the rain outside. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and placed the second cup into the sink without a second glance. 

He found himself preferring tea nowadays and eagerly let its aroma coat the air. It was much better than the dull tang of instant coffee, which was now unpleasantly bitter in a bland sort of way, or the sloshing sharpness of a canned beer. Perhaps, if he let it linger for long enough, some of its cheap freshness could infuse into his very being. He could carry it with him in some way. A car passed below with streaky red lights blinking while umbrellas, dyed black by the approaching darkness, bobbled aimlessly around the streets. Red and black and green danced in the lights of passing life below. He took a sip of tea, but it was long since cold by now and all the rice had sunken to the bottom. This cup, too, was placed in the sink as the curtain closed.

-

He remembers that day sometimes. The memory hovers over him like a swirling cloud. He could hear the rain, altogether too loud yet too quiet, that fell like tears and carved rivers down his cheeks. He was struck all at once by the hush and the rush and the sheer incredulity of it all. He stood there for a long time, long after everyone had already left, scratching at the dirt with a wandering heel. 

-

They would have met up in a café, perhaps, but today they decided to meet somewhere more neutral. It was mid-afternoon, or maybe it was early evening, but it didn’t really matter anyways. The sun was beginning its sweeping descent, burning through the clouds. It was rosy as the sun’s rays refracted its reds and oranges across the soft sky. Golden hour, he thinks it was called in one of those illustrated photo guides they had rifled through. They chose a park this time, one with a neat little circular bench set in stone, and sat facing each other. The park itself was no new sight and neither was the bench, engraved with some memoriam from years past. Everything felt comfortably familiar in a way, even when things were decidedly different. It was good to schedule meetings like this, but it was increasingly difficult to find a time that worked with everyone’s increasingly diverse schedules. What started off as weekly catch-up sessions were drawn out until they happened twice a month, then once, then every couple months if they were lucky. Sometimes the group would meet up fractured if that worked out easier, but it seemed that time had only spread them more and more apart. They would still try though. They were still people with a common destiny, even if their paths had split a while ago, even when it felt like they were drifting further and further apart.

Homare sat next to Hisoka carrying two drinks. Well, in reality, it was more like Hisoka was leaning against him rather than sitting as he melted into the bench. He occasionally grabbed his drink, still filled with marshmallows after all this time, and took a small sip of it before returning it to Homare’s hand once more. They must have stopped somewhere before this. It was nice to see everyone again. 

It was Guy that had reached out to him first back then. He realised that something was off. It started with meetups to run, to get him out and about, and it gave him the chance to focus on the feeling of moving ahead. He would ask him questions about acting, or invite him out to watch a show, or just arrange for them to meet up and exercise together. Azuma helped too in his own way. They shared many nights over drinks, giving him a chance to ease his guard. He learned a long time ago that he deflected by catching people off guard and saw through it, much like how Azuma likely saw through his somewhat awkward speech. Hisoka looked at him with a familiar weight in his eyes. He remembers hearing about him losing someone important to him a long time ago. They went out together to do simple things, easy things. They went to the store, walked in the park, and just spent time enjoying each other's company. There was something familiarly comfortable about carrying him home. Homare had offered him a poem then but even that was subdued, less bombastic and more obviously emotional. It was sweet in a subtle way. They would meet up, all 5 of them, and cook something or watch something together. Everyone helped ease him back towards a sense of normalcy. The growing distance between them slowly closed.

He sat on the bench and looked out in the distance at some playing children. He felt so blissfully relaxed for the first time in weeks. After all this time, they were still a family after all. They had moments of silence, comfortable silence that wrapped around them like a blanket, to match the flickering moments of subdued speech. It seemed like everyone was feeling it today. Homare would begin to softly utter words to himself as if trying to find the right phrasing and articulation for a poem, or perhaps Azuma and Guy would trade hushed words as Hisoka rolled his cup between his fingers. Snippets of conversation would flow between them in a languid trickle. In the background, the sun continued its golden glow. 

“How are the kids?” he asked plainly, tentatively, as if he was intruding into a world he was no longer a part of. He couldn’t stay there after everything that happened, but he knows that they understood him. 

“Good,” replied Homare. “They’re putting on a show in a couple weeks if you want to come. I saved a ticket for you just in case.” Even though they weren’t directly involved and acting anymore, they worked hard to guide the next generation of actors. Tsumugi had loved teaching them too when he could. A lot of the old troupe members spent time with the new kids to spread the joy of acting. He used to go in and check on them too. 

“Thank you. I love seeing them grow.” It was the truth. He hadn’t visited them in a while but that didn’t stop him from stubbornly clutching onto snippets of news whenever he could find them. 

The evening got colder and colder as the sun began to set. He had just finished talking to Guy about an old play. He would always get too invested in his roles. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could spend time living in this role. Maybe someday he would wake up and this would feel natural. Homare softly ran a hand through Hisoka’s hair as they talked, their empty cups left on the floor to be thrown away afterwards. It was almost time to leave. 

“Let’s meet up again soon.” Azuma smiled, illuminated by the brightening street lights behind them. They would meet up again at some point in the future and he would drag himself wherever he needed to be. He would pen it in his calendar with increasingly shaky hands. He would have something to look forward to, even if it was weeks or months or years away. 

-

_Just because a friend is not near you doesn’t mean you’re separated. Sometimes, even if you’re not together, you’re still connected. Even if we’re not together, our feelings are still connected. As long as I know I will see you again, I know everything will be okay._

He walked into the store and immediately felt out of place. It wasn’t like he’s never been here before; on the contrary, he’d been dragged here countless times with a sweet word and a promise of a short trip. If anything, it felt too unsteadily familiar. It looked too normal, uncomfortably so, yet entirely too different. There was a new basket, pale pink with twisting lines of white, made to hold umbrellas. It stood next to the door along with a freshly dirtied welcome mat. The cat that liked to pad around, nestled between the shelves, was nowhere to be seen. He was hit with the profound sense that things were changing and he could never catch up.

He fumbled around the shelves, peering at various arrangements and ornaments, until he stumbled upon something achingly familiar. Of course, in the end, there was only ever one choice. The lady working at the store smiled up at him, wrapping it up in old newspapers covered in advertisements for a new sports drink advertised by Banri’s sharp grin. The drink itself had come out a while ago and somehow, though he didn’t have much taste for it, a couple of bottles made it into their fridge. It was a little too sweet for his liking and bright blue, unnaturally luminescent in an off-putting way. He passed her his money, exact change in carefully counted coins and bills, and left as quickly as he could. With his purchase bundled close to his chest, he pulled open the door and stepped into the world outside, painted artificially bright with a neon starlight.

-

“We promised that we would meet again in our next lives. I may be the only one who remembers that promise now, but I wanted to fulfil it no matter what.”

Golden hour, he thinks it was called in hushed, hurried tones as everything was rushing past him. He understood now how it felt to be in a time lapse, staring motionless as everything wordlessly rushed past him. 

-

He still remembers how it felt to see him there. It felt alien to see him so completely still. He looked unnaturally still despite any prettiments and flowers arranged to try to hide it. He couldn’t even imagine that he was asleep because it felt so different. It wasn’t right. He remembers it vaguely through wisps and snippets of speech that roared past his ears as he robotically went through the motions. He kept waiting for it to be a nightmare. He kept waiting and waiting and waiting for the nightmare to end. He just wanted to wake up and hear his voice and smell that slight floral scent that clung to everything in their home. He wanted to open his eyes and see him there gently smiling in his sleep, unlike then with his stiff, plastered serenity, as he got ready for his morning run. The Tsumugi in his memories would be his smiling lead, his biggest supporter, his closest friend. It would not be the lifeless one, the one he couldn’t keep, the one that was gone too quickly. 

If he could, he would turn to him, his perennial love, and he would cling to that sweetness for as long as he could. He would go on his morning run and maybe pass by the store. He would buy him flowers, in a pot rather than as a bouquet, just to see him smile. Perhaps when he got back, he would fry some eggs and gently ease him awake. They could go down and visit the kids in the Mankai Company and watch them act or maybe, on their own private stage, they would run through lines while sitting at the table. These are the dreams that haunted him, dancing under his eyelids and beckoning him to sleep with their seductive deception. 

-

His parcel was slightly crushed from his hasty retreat. He carefully unwrapped the newspaper, folding up the advertisement and saving it in his back pocket. He used the rest of the newspaper to clean the stone, cutting up errant grass with a pair of shears. He laid out the haphazard arrangement of small white buds and leaves among orchids and daffodils. Beside that was a small bundle interspersed with camellias, roses, anemones and ranunculus blooms in soft pinks and whites. He hoped that, wherever he was, he could somehow reach him. In a way, they were still together.

He understood why he wanted him to read that guide all those years ago. The orchid for unchanging, everlasting love. The narcissus, his flower. Return to my side. Stay as sweet as you are. It's more fitting now than ever. 

-

Their home was filled with doubles: two mugs with two chairs for two tables for two people with two fates. They had pinned up two of those calendars that you get from banks or supermarkets or flower shops or other stores, the ones with the little logos and cute nondescript pictures of fields or fruit, and hung them side by side on two brassy nails. There should be one for the current year and one for the next. He had jokingly suggested that they make a Mankai Company calendar in the past, but he doesn’t think he’d ever use one even if it was made. 

It would be a pain to celebrate the new year by putting up a new calendar. It was much easier to arrange two, nailed side by side on the wall beside the kitchen, so they could scribble in little notes on each one as needed. It was easier to work things out when they had spare time. Instead of taking one down with the new year just to replace it with another blank one, they could plan out a new year’s worth of new memories and proudly display them. They were microcosms of their life with little drawings and crumpled flyers pinned under them.

He looked at the calendar and knew, hidden away under some pages, would be a sweet little scribble of his own. Covering up the whole box for the 22nd was a bright “Happy birthday Tachan :)” penned in flowing blue ink. Underneath his writing, invading boxes around it, was a little drawing of a dog that he had continued, despite all the time that’s passed, to insist was better. This, all together, was circled by a crude drawing of a smiling flower, an imprecisely beautiful orchid. 

He staggered his way to the calendar, eyes blurred and bleary from a mixture of sleep and a lingering sadness, and eyed the circled date. He plucked it off the nail, still hanging on that wall long after its year had passed, and placed it on the table next to the vase. Inside the vase was a single daffodil, a remnant from his trip the day before. Inside the sink stood two cups, both empty in a way. He opened it up and brushed his fingers over that lively writing, caressing the dog with soft jerky strokes from calloused hands, and began to cry. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be future fic exploring how people can be together in one moment and then, despite all odds or all promises, can be broken apart or forced apart. I wanted to write something that showed the bittersweet feeling of keeping things together or letting things go when it's too late. Somehow that evolved into a fic where Tsumugi has died and Tasuku is left picking up the pieces. I think it's partly because I read their VIVID WINTER backstages and I just DIED... or at least that's a big part of it. I started by writing about calendars and was then struck by the idea of habits, like making 2 cups of tea, that just seem to linger. The very idea that he would drink tea just to smell something almost familiar... I just had so much to think about here. 
> 
> This is an interesting departure from my other pieces since it's less about showing thoughts and more about setting a scene or describing actions and I'm not sure which I prefer. It kind of jumps around with the chronology but hopefully it was relatively clear? Italicised lines are from A Clockwork Heart.


End file.
